


Pop

by gnustocks



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Humor, Aziraphale Needs A Hug, Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Crack, Humor, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Kidnapping, M/M, Misunderstandings, Protective Crowley, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Summoning, idk how to describe it, ish, kind of, the angst is like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:07:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23630566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnustocks/pseuds/gnustocks
Summary: Crowley, when he forgot himself, tended to hiss. When he was irritated, or stressed, or focusing a great deal, his eyes, or so he had been told, stretched into the limited space of his human eyeballs to turn yellow entirely. When he was angry, skin turned to scales. When he was furious-Well.The receptionist did not scream at the transformation. The slip from a human nose into something flatter, the white fangs growing, and lanky limbs folding away. He did scream at the sheer size of the thing, though.Or:Aziraphale goes missing, Crowley mistakenly blames Hell.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 253





	Pop

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn’t going to post this because it’s a bit of a mess, but it’s meant be a joke sort of one/shot so I’m not to fussed about people reading it fjdndbd. Just a bit of fun.

A pop was all it took. On Aziraphale’s end, at least. On the human’s end it took a whole lot of planning. Meticulous research that left sleep deprivation at its forefront and irritability at its second. But the human had stretches of paper, all detailing runes and sigils that would catch him something better than any octopus, or deep sea creature, or big fish- ones those shows always rattled on about- and would hopefully, if he played his cards right, let him leave with power beyond the fantasies of any mortal.

A pop, a crack, and then a fizzle that rang like air being let out of a balloon, and Aziraphale was somewhere else. He had been in the middle of a conversation on the telephone, talking to Crowley about the Immortals of the Persian military. When apart, which was rare enough, they spent most of their time on the phone. Aziraphale had moved his favourite armchair next to the telephone, so he could sit and listen. There was something nice about being able to stay connected to Crowley, even while apart.

Now his poor receiver, for the second time, was abandoned on the ground with Crowley on the other end, muttering on about how they weren’t  _ really  _ immortals, and the confusion it had caused him. ( _ “I ran, Aziraphale. I ran so far away.”) _

“Now,” Aziraphale huffed, waving away the dramatic smoke that filled his vision. He knew immediately he wasn’t in his bookshop, or anywhere near it. The smell was off, musky and sour, like the air hadn’t been privy to anything but rotten cardboard boxes and dust. “I hardly see how that was necessary. I was having a conversation, you see.” 

The smoke cleared, and Aziraphale realised, irritably, that it was coming from a small machine under the stairs.

A man stood mysteriously in the corner, hood drawn over his face, black robes brushing over the filthy floor. He clasped pasty hands in front of him.

Aziraphale stared flatly. 

“It worked!”

An American. So  _ dramatic.  _ They were always flaring grandiose, like a bit of grain trying to flourish as a flower. Ridiculous, in Aziraphale’s opinion. But, British people weren’t much better. At least, they might have given him a cup of tea first, or a biscuit. The little room the human had summoned him to was lacking refreshments. There was no furniture, just a circle engraved in-

Aziraphale squinted.

“Er. There’s really no need, my dear. You know Ancient Greeks only summoned in this language because they were Greek.” The angel raised an eyebrow, “and ancient.”

He examined his hands, “and besides, it hardly ever  _ worked.  _ On the odd occasion it does, anyone can appear.” Aziraphale shuddered, “you could have got Gabriel.”

The human fanned his sweaty face with a bit of paper. He was thin, and his skeletal face was framed by beady blue eyes that roved over Aziraphale greedily. “So, you are an angel?”

Aziraphale looked around guiltily. “No?”

The human grinned. He had pearly whites, but they looked anything but appealing as he stepped forward. “Yeah?” A knobby finger slithered out from beneath black robes to point at the circle. “Step out of that, then.”

“I quite like where I am, actually.” Aziraphale rubbed his hands together, ignoring the spiders lurking among the room, the stuffiness, and the tightness of the small circle, “cozy.”

The human ignored him, and paused his fanning. It had done nothing to keep the sweat at bay, the salty matter sliding in droplets down his face. It was humid, but- Aziraphale let his essence drift out- still dark out. He supposed basements- a terrible place for a summoning; you at least wanted the angel in an amicable mood by placing them somewhere pleasant- didn’t have much use for windows.

The human brandished his paper, the one that had been clutched between the white knuckled grasp of his fingers, squinting at the words as he cleared his throat. His giddiness was rolling off him in waves. 

He spared Aziraphale one last look, smug and deceitfully cheerful. “You’ll like this.” 

Whatever was on the paper, he was quite proud of. Aziraphale would have been encouraging, if he didn’t feel so tetchy. Humans were never the cause of too much worry unless they were rallying in large groups, or placed in charge of nuclear codes.

“Do you have a telephone?” He really was doing his best to be polite, but the thought of Crowley panicking and doing something drastic was twisting at his stomach. He also didn’t appreciate unprecedented holidays across the ocean. 

“What?” 

“I said,” Aziraphale said patiently, “do you have a telephone? I was in the middle of a conversation.”

The human sneered, “upstairs, but I’m sure you can wait.”

Aziraphale was unperturbed. “It’s quite important that I make a call. So if you could just,” he gestured the circle, and smiled encouragingly. 

“Are you-“ the human’s mouth made a series of outraged sounds- “are you  _ thick?  _ You- You’re serious?” He scoffed. “You’re my prisoner. I kidnapped you. You’re mine.  _ You can’t leave.” _

Aziraphale sniffed. “I was never a child.”

“Angelnapped. Whatever you want to call it.” He flicked the paper up again, “won’t matter when I’m done.”

“Done with what?” 

The human shook the paper. It had an odd feeling to it, like the crackle of sparklers as they fizzed through the air. “This.” 

Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, and peered up the staircase. A door, a heavy oak with a stylish Victorian knob, loomed above them. “You haven’t even introduced yourself, you know.”

“Thomas,” he replied snidely, and dropped the paper again, blue eyes gazing at the angel pointedly. “Why aren’t you scared? You can’t use your powers.”

Aziraphale straightened his bow tie. He tapped his foot impatiently. “Well, pleasure to you meet you, I suppose-“

“It’s really not-“

“I ought to tell you my name, I’d think. It’s only polite.” He held out his hand, then thought better of it, and retracted it again. “Aziraphale. Er. Now, about that telephone call?”

* * *

Crowley was panicking. He spent the three seconds it took to travel between matter panicking, popping up through the discarded telephone with mused hair and anxiety.

Once, around 1984, Aziraphale watched a film at the theatre with Crowley. The main characters were furbies or something, and it was supposed to be spooky, but Crowley had spent half the movie cringing in his seat at fluffy faces and wide eyes. Aziraphale laughed himself silly. He then, about a week later, placed a toy  _ Gremlin  _ inconspicuously on top of one of his bookshelves. Crowley had been drinking when he noticed it, neck of the bottle held between two fingers as he took a long sip, letting his eyes wander, comforted by Aziraphale’s voice, before promptly spraying a fine line of red across the room.

The point was, Aziraphale was capable of playing pranks. Crowley checked each room. He checked between and behind bookcases, under a stuffy bed in a small room shunted off to the side of the second story, reaching out for any sense of divine essence. Earth was big, and Crowley had to focus to feel the edges of Aziraphale’s presence. It was fuzzy, and far away.

He sniffed.

There was a faint smoky smell. Like when the toaster was burning because the piece of bread was too big because loaves of uncut bread confused Crowley.

It smelt faintly of Hell.

Crowley glared at the phone, tongue flicking out to taste the bitter lines in the air. He could smell where Aziraphale had been. On the chair. Perhaps with his legs crossed, head tipped back as he listened-

Crowley looked away. The smell didn’t migrate across the room. It stayed fresh in the corner with the telephone. Aziraphale hadn’t gotten up. Angels and demons were more than capable of teleportation, but they were also capable of teleporting others, or yanking them down or up. He grit his teeth, and accidentally bit his lip. 

Blood was uncomfortably tangy. It filled his mouth, though it was no bother, perhaps the last thing on Crowley’s mind as he came to the infuriating realisation that  _ his angel  _ must have been taken.

* * *

”I don’t have my reading glasses right now, unfortunately.”

“Why not?”

“Um. Because I don’t read.“

Aziraphale crossed his arms. It was mostly to stop himself fidgeting with his fingers, or tightening his bow tie. Whatever the human had on the paper was beginning to burn, and he didn’t want to stick around to see what happened when he actually read it. With Aziraphale’s name. A bit of a slip up on his end. 

“What’s a little game of ‘Go Fish’ ever done to anyone,” Aziraphale said desperately, flicking his eyes around the basement for any sort of distraction. 

“Not my game.”

There was nothing interesting in the room. Even the light was pathetic, a yellow bulb dangling loosely on a dusty string. Aziraphale stood up straighter. “Hang on, you’re about to read from that bit of paper. You don’t even  _ need _ reading glasses.”

Thomas had the gall to look guilty. “I hate ‘Go Fish’, anyway.” He paused, then realised that he was being friendly, or close to it, and his face twisted and he stuck his nose up. “How does an angel even know what cards are, anyway? You all probably sit up in heaven,  _ judging us,  _ but not helping.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong. But Aziraphale liked to think that he was the exception.

“Do you need help with something?” He decided on gently, letting his arms drop to twist at his waistcoat.

“Obviously,” Thomas huffed, and went back to the paper. He opened his mouth.

Aziraphale looked around desperately. “How old are you, Thomas? Fifty?”

“Thirty four.”

“Sorry.”

Thomas scowled. 

“Isn’t this something that can be fixed by a therapist? Your GP?” Aziraphale did his best to smile, but it twisted miserably on the jagged edges of the words on the human’s paper. They hadn’t been said out loud, yet, but they were all but begging to be uttered in the presence of something holy, twisting and squirming in ecstasy that sizzled over Aziraphale’s skin. It was Hellish, whatever he had.

The human rounded on him. His skinny face was red, and his eyes bulged, anger slipping out from his thin mouth as it opened and closed like a fish. “Shut up. No one  _ human _ can help me. You can, and I don’t give a flying fuck whether you want to or not. I’m not playing ‘fish’ with you, or, or  _ counting to ten _ . I’m reading this.” He took a deep breath, and added, for good measure, a quick ‘fuck you.’

He began to read.

The circle, and the ground Aziraphale was standing on, flared with heat.

* * *

The receptionist was shitting himself.

Crowley tapped his foot impatiently, examined his black nails, and levelled the demon an unimpressed look.

“Well?”

The receptionist, a frail looking thing with red eyes and twigs growing from yellowed skin, trembled. He had shrunk back, hiding behind a computer that looked like it had been taken straight from the back room of Aziraphale’s shop. 

“I can’t just let you in.” He typed gibberish into the computer. “Sir,” he added quickly. 

“Do you want Holy Water up your ass? Cause I can, uh-“ Crowley looked around for a source of water, and spotted a pipe dripping pathetically. A fat splash of water landed on the ground every couple of seconds. “Bless that. Yeah.”

The demon looked over to the sluggishly leaking pipe in horror.

“But I can’t! It’s- it’s forbidden! You’re forbidden!”

He snatched up the keyboard when Crowley reached over.

“If I let you in,” the receptionist lowered his voice, “the Prince, er, Princes, won’t be happy.”

A stretch of pointy teeth glowered in the light under the false pretence of a smile. 

“Open the fucking gate.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

The demon shook his head. He clutched the keyboard to his chest. “Just accept it, sir.” 

Crowley stilled. 

Accept it. Accept his angel being in  _ Hell,  _ of all places.

The receptionist eyed him warily. 

It didn’t look like Crowley was breathing. Not that they needed to, but it weirded him out all the same. His hair didn’t sway in the cold breeze of their entryway to the pit. The demon hastily added another lock to the gate, right as he spied a narrowed eye twitching. 

Crowley, when he forgot himself, tended to hiss. When he was irritated, or stressed, or focusing a great deal, his eyes, or so he had been told, stretched into the limited space of his human eyeballs to turn yellow entirely. When he was angry, skin turned to scales. When he was furious-

Well.

The receptionist did not scream at the transformation. The slip from a human nose into something flatter, the white fangs growing, and lanky limbs folding away. He did scream at the sheer size of the thing, though. 

* * *

Humans were brilliant. They were ridiculously smart. Perhaps, too clever for their own good. Always inventing new things, creating strange mishaps and celebrating differences.

Thomas, Aziraphale presumed, must have been the odd one out.

Nothing had happened.

The human muttered the words, trembling with excitement as Aziraphale attempted to muddle his thought process by counting backwards from a hundred. He spent two minutes reciting the Hellish passage from his paper. But, as the last bit ended with a flourish, Aziraphale found himself perfectly safe. 

He hadn’t been banished, or killed, or-

Thomas was grinning. 

“It worked.”

Aziraphale scoffed. The human rolled on the balls of his feet. He scrunched up the paper into a ball and threw it at the angel. 

Aziraphale let it hit him. He eyed the human, then glanced at his feet, at the circle, and up at the ceiling. “Well, I didn’t feel anything.”

Thomas stepped aside, too giddy to properly gloat, and revealed a large jar, filled to the brim with curling gold and blue twines of silky essence. It twirled angrily. 

Aziraphale stared. 

After Heaven had, for lack of better words, fired him, he had lost the metaphorical connection to Above, but never the physical. It was like background noise. A buzz of holiness that reminded him where ‘home’ was. Where his brother and sisters remained. 

An empty road replaced it. If his essence were a car, Aziraphale would have been the little figure stranded on a gravelly stretch of highway, with a sign that said ‘Location: Middle of Fuck Off Nowhere’ while the runaway car sped away. 

He reared back. 

Thomas’s grin widened. He picked up the jar and peered in. The thought of his grimy fingers unscrewing the lid and reaching in made Aziraphale feel sick. His stomach lurched. 

“You- you-“ Aziraphale lifted a finger. It was trembling, either in fear at such a wretched loss, or anger. “You  _ cockroach.” _

Thomas wasn’t listening. He rubbed at the glass. His grace recoiled, but there was nowhere to go. Aziraphale could almost feel it, the suffocating space, stilling his power, his movement. “That’s mine!”

“Not anymore,” Thomas said cheerfully. He tucked the jar under his arm. Aziraphale’s mouth ran with saliva, and his stomach twisted.

“Have fun down here. Cheerio. Whatever it is you Brits say.”

Aziraphale stood to his full height, and glared at the human’s back. Thomas began to climb the stairs. “I’m not a ‘Brit’,” he hissed, “I’m an angel!”

Thomas reached the top and fiddled with the knob for a second. A skinny leg kicked at the rotting wood, and the door opened with a resounding screech. “Not anymore! Ciao!”

Aziraphale almost fainted.

* * *

Hell did, despite its inane twist on technology, have security cameras. They were grainy, and not terribly useful. But you could always squint and pick out who and who wasn’t fornicating in a damp corner. 

Disposable Demon A, along with Disposable Demon B were, for lack of better words _ , _ in charge of them. Their duties, printed to them each day, was a single word. ‘Watch’. 

It was fucking boring. Useless, even. 

Disposable Demon A emptied a pack of stale peanuts into his mouth. “That a snake?” He asked, and jabbed a finger at the shadowy thing migrating across the small monitors. 

Disposable Demon B squinted. Among the pixels was a fuzzy outline of something  _ large,  _ and black. Disposable Demon A had seen a film once. Something about a wizard, and the snake in that compared nothing to the monstrosity currently slithering its way through the grimy Labyrinth of Hell. His partner let out a long whistle.

“I think it is, innit?”

The snake disappeared from one monitor to the next, and unhinged it’s jaws.

Disposable Demon B let his eyes wander to the next long row of footage, and brightened. “Hey, that’s Rona, from Inhuman Resources.” He blinked. “Oh.”

Rona had, after pointing a pale finger at the snake, been completely enveloped by a gaping mouth. 

Disposable Demon A drummed his fingers against the table. “I think,” he said, vaguely worried about how far away the thing was, “we should tell a Prince.”

* * *

Technically, only six, not seven, Princes of Hell resided among the depths of the Pit. Lucifer and Satan, depending on who was talking, were different  _ things  _ in charge of different sins. This was wrong. More simply, Lucifer was not a separation from Satan, because Satan was Lucifer. Their sins, pride and wrath, did not combine, and nor did they ever meddle with each other’s affairs. They simply were sins. Two that were shared by one. 

“My Lord.”

Satan grunted.

The Demon, who wasn’t disposable, but was quite little, peered into the office of the Lawless One, the King of their Bottomless pit, the  _ Liar _ , the Father, the one who he had been told, no short of, to report to. A Prince, technically. 

But, Satan was also a King.

“There’s a snake on the loose.”

Satan pondered this. He had not been to Earth for some time. His grasp on human idioms were quite poor. 

A sexually free snake.

“Refer this  _ problem  _ to Asmodeus.”

“Yes, of course, my Lord.” The Lesser demon turned, then paused. “To get rid of it?”

“To do whatever it is he deems fit.”

Satan knew vaguely that snakes had two genital organs. He scratched his head. 

“Get out.”

At least, it should intrigue  _ that _ Prince.

* * *

Hastur, after slinking out of a long meeting with Prince Beelzebub, was floating amongst the halls. Other demons fled around him, shrinking into the walls to blend in with the posters and grimy bricks. 

It was a wonderful place.

A crossroad of halls lay ahead. They were only a tad wider than the other narrow pathways of hell. Something snapped. The walls began to spindle with jagged cracks, splitting open until they were yawning wider and wider.

Hastur stopped, and stared.

A huge, flat nostril nosed its way to the opening. A yellow eye, unblinking, looked left, and then right. Right, unfortunately, at one Duke of Hell.

Hastur turned, and went hastily back the way he came.

* * *

Disposable Demon B had just finished dragging a rather dingy shelf in front of the door. It held the handle at an odd angle, but he dusted his hands, admiring a job well done, and rather thought that his handiwork would do a fine job of keeping them safe from the beast.

“I don’t think that’ll hold,” Disposable Demon A said, scratching his head. “I mean, did you see the size of that thing? It could nudge any wall down with its tail.”

Disposable Demon B waved a hand. “It’ll hold. Has to. Saw a movie once.”

“Well,  _ I  _ saw one of those once, too. And, shelf didn’t do nothin’ to keep the man out. Had an axe an’ everything.”

Disposable Demon B nodded, then paused. “Wait, I’ve seen that one. There wasn’t no shelf there. Just the door. And the lady, of course,” he added, “screamin’ like anything.”

Disposable Demon A grunted.

They both fell silent, and eyed the monitors.

“Ah. He’s getting a bit close, isn’t he?”

The room began to rattle. 

* * *

It was rather noteworthy that Crowley came to the jarring realisation that his imagination, as strong as perhaps a human’s, was a vital tool in battling demons. Crowley had one. He had one that changed scribbled drawings into mosaic masterpieces. 

So, while thinking about a movie two Demons had apparently seen, one that Crowley had dragged Aziraphale to watch when it came out, he created, with the limitless lines of imagination, a maze. A maze out of the many pathways of Hell. It was already a maze, but now it was  _ his _ maze. And, if he had arms, he might’ve picked up a bat. So long as the maze served its use, and he was able to push Aziraphale out of a small, metaphorical bathroom window to safety, all would be well.

Another batch of demons scrambled backwards.

Crowley hissed. “Oi!” He bared his fangs, tongue flicking out to taste the tangy buzz of fear. “You lot! Where issssss he?”

Rona was still squirming in his stomach.

The group froze, and turned unanimously like the kazoo kid. Their eyes lined a murky rainbow, all blinking slowly at their ex-coworker. One brave demon hitched a breath, and lifted the nub of his finger. “Where’s who?”

Crowley jerked forward, scales rippling in time with a flare of fury. His back arched, but there wasn’t much room left, and it cracked the ceiling. “You know who.”

One of the demons nudged the one with the nubs for fingers. “That’s Crowley,” he whispered. 

“And?”

“The one with the angel boyfriend.”

One of the demons sneered, but promptly fell back on his bottom. A harsh sneer escaped Crowley’s low row of fangs. Crowley, in his rage, was growing bigger. The maze was hasty to grow with him. His fangs might’ve now been about the size of the corporations below him.

“There’ssssss nowhere to go,” he hissed, “give him back!”

One of the demons looked to the left. “There’s this supply closest.” He brightened with the beginnings of a great idea, and opened the door and stepped inside, leaving his fellow demons behind.

The other group of demons did not jump, so much as they did not leer, or shrink back from the snake, who was now grinning evilly. (They were, because a grinning snake didn’t look natural at all.)

The demon inside the supply closet shrieked.

It was Crowley’s maze, after all.

* * *

The man had left.

About an hour later, Aziraphale realised that without his essence, he was no longer tethered to the runes that kept him trapped. He nosed a tentative foot over the line, then tittered over to the ruined set of stairs. They did not mysteriously stabilise under the weight of the angel; their rotted boards stayed rotted, creaking with an alluded threat. But, all the same, they guided Aziraphale out.

* * *

Crowley had a demon in a choke hold. A snake choke hold. His tail, long and thick, was curled around the flimsy corporation of a demon who might have been semi-important, if he had the brains to figure out how to get out of his predicament. 

“ _ Where.” _

The demon squirmed, face flushing an awful blue colour- stupid, considering they didn’t actually need to breath. Crowley would have thought the shattering of ribs under his grip, the audible crack of bones, would be much more uncomfortable.

“Where what,” it managed to wheeze out.

“You know what.”

The demon squirmed. 

“I really-  _ fuck-  _ don’t!”

* * *

Asmodeus was lost.

He had been ordered, a big one straight from Him, to find a snake with some sort of sexual charge, but the hallways, the ones he traversed everyday, were now different. Some didn’t even lead to anywhere. He’d come face to face with an empty wall, and have to turn back, muttering under his breath as he opened doors that should have led to dirty conference rooms, but were now filled to the brim with books that, if Asmodeous looked closely, would have seen were gay erotica.

A furious hiss interrupted his fruitless searching. 

“ _ The ANGEL,  _ obviously!”

The rest of the sentence trailed off into senseless hissing. A fellow demon let out a screech.

Asmodeus peered down the hallway, and followed the noise.

* * *

There was a phone upstairs. Thomas had not been lying in that respect, at least. Aziraphale was in a cottage of some sort, framed by trees outside that stretched into a forest. A holiday home, perhaps. 

Aziraphale beamed at the old thing, and, on unsteady feet, strode over to it. He caught himself before he pressed ‘999’, and waited patiently for the line to connect.

“911. Please state your emergency.”

“Good-“ he peered out the window again, “morning. I’d like to report a robbery.”

* * *

Asmodeus had taken one look at the snake staring in fury down at a demon who wouldn’t tell him where his lost property was, and turned. He heard the click of a huge jaw unhinging, and quickened his pace.

Lust, and every fetish under the sun were all under his expertise; an interest of his. But snakes that big had no right being sexually free, he reckoned. 

A door appeared to his left. The snake hissed again, and Asmodeus jerked it open, slipping inside without looking back.

* * *

Aziraphale had apparently been fined. He spent ten minutes arguing with the dispatcher on the phone, complaining about  _ humans _ , about his Grace, about how he was the victim of a robbery, thank you very much dear  _ lady,  _ and all he received was a dry ‘book him up, boys’ and something about money.

He hung up, and was now trudging down the dirt road after sitting miserably on the empty kitchen floor eating crackers. 

There were no cars in sight. No radio towers or power lines. Nothing but trees that lined the side of a road that didn’t even have lines. It was narrow, and brushed dirt over his pants after every step.

Aziraphale decided, after tripping on a small rock that scuffed an awful white line over his shoe, he was not having a good day.

* * *

Asmodeus, as he slipped into the unknown room, came face to face with a furious Prince Beelzebub, along with two Disposable Demons cowering over a line of security monitors.

“Hi.”

The Prince, who had significantly more leeway because they were The Prince, The Prince of Hell, buzzed angrily. The flies above their head were all glaring. 

“You did nothinz!”

Beelzebub pointed a small finger at the footage, “you  _ idiot _ . It iz simple and you-“

Asmodeus bravely held up a hand, “M’lord, it was  _ Crowley.  _ As a humongous  _ snake.” _

The finger dropped down to Beelzebub's side. They turned, and peered at the monitors. “He’z on the move again.”

Disposable Demon A jerked a thumb at the screen, leaning (stupidly, not fearlessly) over Beelzebub's shoulder to peer at the grainy outline of a Duke. “Hastur is about to stumble onto his path. Poor bloke. He looks a bit lost.”

The room fell silent.

“Ten souls says he swallows him whole.”

* * *

“Let’s be reasonable about this, Crowley.” 

Hastur was doing that boggley thing again. He was shrugging, mouth twisting oddly downwards while his eyes bugged in judgement and grudging fear. It was pissing Crowley off.

“Tell me where he issssss, Hassssstur.”

“‘Hastur’,” Hastur sneered.

Crowley, with all the false bravado one could have from a lie that painted him as an all powerful demon immune to Holy Water, shoved Hastur over with his tail. It felt invigorating, and much needed. 

He scowled as best he could with his snake mouth. “Where.”

“Where is who, you-“ Hastur held back an insult, harshly reminded that as much as Crowley was a gnat, he was a gnat that could turn him into stew if he pleased. He grit his teeth together, “you’re  _ mad. _ ”

Crowley had never been so thankful about Aziraphale’s grand performance in Hell. He grinned, and Hastur shrunk back. 

“The angel.  _ ‘I know where the Antichrist is’.  _ Ring any bells?”

Hastur’s eye twitched.

Ah. That angel.

He certainly would have known if the annoying, pompous bugger was anywhere near Hell. He was immune to hellfire, so there wasn’t much they could do  _ but _ torture him. 

“Not here, Crawly. I would know,” Hastur grinned, “because I would have been there to make your little pet’s life as miserable as-“

The group in the Security room collectively flinched.

Beelzebub grudgingly swathed over ten souls for Asmodeus to present to their Master. 

* * *

“You’re such a good listener,” Aziraphale said miserably, awkwardly crouched over the dirt to avoid dirtying his trousers any further. “And I can’t even extend the same courtesy.”

The squirrel squeaked understandingly. It rubbed its face with its tiny paws, scrubbing away the wet that had come with a downfall that left Aziraphale soaking. He found subliminal cover amongst the trees, and a new friend.

It seemed, even without his Grace, he was still on good terms with animals.

“I can’t even call Crowley.” He was as good as human, and there was still so much he wanted to say, tendrils of emotions left unsaid. He rubbed his hands together nervously. “Oh, what if I never get the chance?”

The squirrel squeaked indignantly.

“No, you’re right. I’m being ridiculous. I can still- I can still get back to London. I have my-“ he patted his pockets, and felt a wave of relief. “My wallet! Thank goodness.”

Aziraphale stood, absentmindedly waving a hand to create a shield from the rain. It did nothing. He grit his teeth, but refused to frown, and looked down at his little friend. “Thank you, sir. Very nice to meet you.” Aziraphale turned, peered through the rain and hoped some good would come from this particularly wretched day, “now, there’s got to be an airport around here  _ somewhere.” _

(If one were to look up and get a satellite view of the area- Oregon, if anyone was wondering- they’d see that for miles in each direction, there were only trees).

* * *

“Oh,” Disposable Demon B cringed, “that’s not gonna feel nice.”

Disposable Demon A nodded, and itched to summon some popcorn. The two Princes behind him were, despite his lack of critical thinking skills, good demotivators. “I wonder what it’s like in his stomach.”

Asmodeus sneered. It was strangely enrapturing. “Want to find out?”

They’d watched three more of their coworkers get swallowed whole, legs flailing as they plummeted head first down the bulging throat. Each demon caught in the halls ran like little ants. They got stuck at dead ends, shrunk in fear when the snake cornered them, and then they were gone. 

Oddly, the snake didn’t seem to be having any directional problems.

Beelzebubz’s flies buzzed warily. “Why do they not… ezcape?”

Asmodeous rubbed at a bushy eyebrow. “The only smart one in there is Hastur, but even that’s pushing it.”

Beelzebub squinted. “Oh, he juzzzt took out a whole group with hiz tail.”

It reminded Disposable Demon B of bowling. How the pins all collapsed and skittered across the floor after a good hit. The demons went flying.

“Strike,” said Disposable Demon B weakly.

* * *

Trees, despite their towering beauty, offered no consolation to Aziraphale’s souring mood. They all looked the same, sporting winding brown trunks and green leaves that bustled in an upward curve that didn’t differentiate from one tree to the next. The canopy was a sea of green that had not changed for miles.

Aziraphale continued to trudge along.

He longed for Crowley. For the squirrel. For a nice cup of tea and a scone. Perhaps with the lovely homemade jam the lady down the street had taken to gifting him after he’d shooed off a particularly rude ex-lover. 

Outwardly, Aziraphale was against the notion of revenge. It was, in his opinion, immature, and didn’t quite suit the mentality of a six thousand year old being. Technically, he had been an adult for a long, long time, and adults didn’t, or at least reasonable adults, didn’t see the appeal. Now, among the never-ending trees, Aziraphale quite liked the idea of petty revenge. 

It was soothing his temper, thinking about the human tripping, or getting his own (metaphorical) Grace taken from him. See how he liked it.

Though, the equivalent might have been his liver. 

Aziraphale cringed, and quickly brushed that thought.

He went back to entertaining himself by identifying the flora. 

To his right: Bigleaf Maple.

Bigleaf Maple.

Bigleaf Maple.

If he looked to his left, he might have been able to see another Bigleaf Maple.

Then, above, a magnificent blue sky that had recently dropped its load over him.

And, coming up on his fifth, the wonderful sound of running water, but no pretty picture to place it on.

Aziraphale paused, and did a one eighty.

He pushed past some branches, ignoring how they caught in his hair and tugged, intent on finding the glorious sound of what had to be a particularly raucous river.

It was raucous, a heavy flow that didn’t stop on account of Aziraphale’s desire to cross it. It wasn’t large, but it was winding, and continued to flow as far as Aziraphale’s (good as human) eyes could see.

“A miracle,” Aziraphale breathed, delighted.

Water leads to humans, he figured. 

Aziraphale eyed the river, and took a tentative step forward onto the bank. His foot sunk into the mud. He took another step forward, scowling, but the earthly substance wasn’t willing to let go. The ground, unappealing and still wet from the rain, flew up to meet his face.

A miracle.

* * *

Crowley was full.

The demons were not dissolving in the acid of his stomach. In fact, it was probably like a nice, warm bath for them. He could feel them squirming around, shoving each other, kicking and sometimes  _ biting.  _ Their muffled voices also floated out when their bickering got particularly heated.

He had seen Cricket once. A quick temptation that required him to attend one of the games in a large stadium that fit too many loud humans. Notably, and definitely not from any meddling, a ball went flying into the crowd after a player gave it a whack that the little toddler in front of him went wild for.

This was what Crowley was now doing. 

The idea of swallowing another one of the buggers was sickening, and throwing them all up didn’t sound pleasant.

So, he figured that his tail was as good as any cricket bat.

He was even allocating himself points.

Another demon from Inhuman Resources had broken through three walls after being on the receiving end of Crowley’s game.

He whistled. “A hundred.”

Crowley  _ almost _ looked down to ask Aziraphale if he was impressed. He almost went to jeer and lean good naturedly into his friend. His friend who, just last night after a nice dinner, kissed his cheek. Crowley had stood out the door for an hour, hand on his cheek, bright red, until Aziraphale opened the door again and dragged him inside.

He turned back to the broken walls, cracked them wider with an irritated wiggle, and slid after the demon. “Oi! Not ssso fassst, you ssslimy git. Where the fuck issss Aziraphale?”

The demon groaned. It was nursing some broken ribs that somehow were hurting about as bad as the whip from one of the racks. “How many times do we have to tell you before you get it through your head? He’s not-“ Crowley opened his mouth. The demon wiggled back, “here! The angel isn’t. We’d bloody well know.”

Crowley hissed. “You’re lying.”

It was in the job title, basically. Couldn’t be a demon without a little lying. (Crowley usually sighted this urge by cheating at Monopoly with Aziraphale).

The demon, who was a whole lot smarter than his co-workers, paused, and flashed a bloodied grin. “Yeah.”

Crowley forced himself to grow even more. “Yeah?” The end of his tail snaked around his narrow waist and squeezed. “Where?” 

“Not at liberty to discuss.”

Crowley shook him. “Thiss issss Hell, there iss no liberty!”

It also settled that Hell, the sloppy, sickening bastards, did have his angel. His angel, who was too kind, too pretty, too fantastically open- minded, for Hell. He was bastardly, but, at Crowley’s growing worry, not enough for the Pits that Hell bragged so proudly about.

He swallowed his anxiety, hoping that it slid down to the demons in his gut and caused some sort of discomfort, and simmered in rage instead.

“ _ Where.” _

_ “ _ I’ll tell you. But you’ve got to agree to some things first, you see.”

The demon no longer seemed bothered by the tail that was, one by one, snapping each of his bones.

Crowley glared at him. “Who do you work under?”

“Prince Beelzebub.”

* * *

“Did he juzt throw me under a human contraption?”

“Bus,” Disposable Demon A offered weakly.

He went ignored.

Asmodeus eyed the demon. A higher up that most demons forgot about. A good lay, decent brain, good tactician. He stroked his beard, “he has a point, you know.”

Beelzebub scowled. 

“If Crowley thinks we have that stupid angel of his, who are we to tell him otherwise?”

One of the monitors shattered. Beelzebub was buzzing up a frenzy. “He izz immune to Holy Water. We would be stupid to-“ they shuddered- “try anything. We don’t know what they are capable of. Uze your brain.”

Asmodeus waved a hand. “Don’t have one. But, think about it. He’d be willing to barter for the angel.”

Beelzebub paused. The flies buzzing around their head quieted and landed dutifully on their shoulders. 

“Bring him, then.”

* * *

Aziraphale had managed to wipe off about half the mud in the river before the water became too cold to bear.

Now, half his face was a mottled brown. It stuck in his hair, flattening the bouncy curls into dried twigs.

He trudged on.

* * *

“Crowley.”

Crowley paused. He was mid-swing with his tail, ready to bowl over the demon who dared keep his angel from him. 

“What?”

The demon, the one who worked under the Prince of Hell, seemed awfully pleased with himself.

Beelzebub, Asmodeus, and two demons who looked more disposable than those cameras Aziraphale had taken to carrying around, stood behind him in a forbidding line.

They did not, much to Crowley chagrin, look very scared.

He bared his teeth, “what do you lot want?”

“We’ve come to discuss some terms,” Beelzebub said, slouching irritably. The flies looked delighted. Crowley ignored the urge to take a big bite and swallow them all.

That was frogs, he reckoned.

He stopped himself from giggling inanely at the thought of Duke Hastur’s reptile sneaking meals from Beelzebub’s flies.

“What termsss?” His tail moved slowly back and forth. It was inching closer and closer to the demon he had been denied the pleasure of bowling down the hall. 

The demon took a step back.

“You come back to work,” Beelzebub declared grudgingly, then glanced to Asmodeus. As much as they hated Crowley, a demon immune to Holy Water was useful. “And we’ll give him back.”

Crowley hissed. It was a guttural hiss. It did not sound like the usual sound of snake hissing. To a human's ear, it’s indescribable, and also deafening.

“You don’t get to-“

Beelzebub raised their fingers. “Next deepest pit.”

If snakes could pale, Crowley would have looked like the antagonist from Ghostbusters. 

His stomach rolled uncomfortably. “I want to sssssee him firsst.”

Asmodeous scowled, “out of the question.”

Crowley drew up to his full height. He jeered at them, “why not?”

Beelzebub elbowed Asmodeus. They looked up at Crowley, nonplussed. “We draw up zthe contract first. Then you see him.”

A much larger part of his mind was urging him to seek Aziraphale out anyway, to find him. The damsel in distress game was all fun and games until they were actually in Hell. Crowley glared down at Beelzebub. In Hell with a Prince who could make Aziraphale’s life worse with a thought. He fretted. The angel’s wings might have been-

Crowley cringed. 

“Fine.”

* * *

“I need directions to the nearest airport.”

The teenager looked down at him. He was lanky, and the Cafe branded apron was too small for him. He tapped his pen against his notepad. 

“Sir.”

Aziraphale pressed his mouth into a tight line. 

“Directions, dear boy.”

The teenager peered at him. He quite thought that the strange man, without the dirt, might have looked quite nice. “Are you alright?”

“Tickety boo.  _ Directions.” _

The teenager- Aziraphale peered at the sticker on his shirt- Mony, opened his mouth, then glanced over to the menu. “To the airport?”

“Yes.”

Mony scratched his head, “it’s a bit far.”

Aziraphale didn’t groan. He did grumble, though.

“How far?”

“You’re not from ‘round here?”

Aziraphale always thought his accent was too pompous to miss. “Obviously.”

Mony continued to tap his pen against the notepad. “Er. It’s hours away. In that direction, I think.” He pointed East, where a winding dirt road travelled past the Butcher’s and a Post Office. 

The chef, the only one on duty in the kitchen, scoffed, and leaned over the counter. “He’s an idiot. It’s that way.”

She pointed West. 

Aziraphale bit his fingernails into his skin. He couldn’t tell which one was right without his Grace. The woman, an old lady with brown hair and kind eyes despite a raggedly irritated voice, looked more trustworthy.

Aziraphale did his best to smile, “thank you.”

He turned, paused, and looked back at them, “Er. Can I have some other directions? I can only get so far on ‘West’.”

* * *

There were no taxis in such a small town, but there was an old pickup truck with a door open and keys in the ignition.

Aziraphale did not know how to drive, but he had watched Crowley enough to make the thing go forward at a reasonable speed. The town receding behind him did nothing to rid him of his guilt, though. He reasoned that it was just sitting there, by itself, and he would return it when he was back home, perhaps with something a little extra. 

He spied a green sign with the mileage to one of Oregon's airports, and decided that it would all be fine. 

Just tickety-boo.

* * *

“-You’ll alzo need to releazze the demonz in your stomach.”

Crowley pretended that demons inside his stomach weren’t causing him intense discomfort. He shrugged as best he could without proper shoulders. “Fine.”

“I want the pen you stole from my desk back.”

Everyone turned to look at Disposable Demon B. He shrugged, looking sheepish. “What? It’s a good pen. Can write underwater.”

Asmodeus grit his teeth, “that too, then.”

Disposable Demon A crossed his arm. “Wait, wait, wait. If we’re all getting back lost property, I want the watch.”

Crowley reared back, and hissed. “No! It’sss mine. I didn’t even steal that off anyone. Had it cusssstom made.”

Beelzebub yawned. 

They hadn’t made any more active threats yet, so Crowley held his ground. “Sod off.”

“Ugh.”

Crowley grew a bit more, just for fun. “We done here? I want Aziraphale back thiss century, thanksss.”

Beelzebub nodded, and pulled out a book. They ran grubby fingers over one of the blank, dirt ridden sheets, “thiz will only take a second.”

* * *

“It‘s kind of nice in here.”

“Are you mad? It  _ stinks.  _ Everything he’s eaten is still in here. Look, a whole  _ egg. _

Hastur shuddered, “human matter. Disgusting.”

Rona swirled some acid around. “It is warm, though.”

Hastur kicked at the gooey lining of Crowley’s stomach. “ _ Absolutely disgusting.” _

* * *

Aziraphale was currently sitting on a plane. 

He was pale, still dirty, and drawing strange looks from all the other passengers. 

Frankly, Aziraphale did not know how he got on the plane. He did not have a passport, a fact that the lady at the desk made very clear. She hadn’t been happy with him, at first. He was holding up the line, and causing a fuss. 

Aziraphale then, on his very last legs, exhausted and frustrated beyond mortal belief, flared in a tremendous blast of temper.

Everything had gone silent. Aziraphale had waited for security guards to drag him away, for the lady to start screaming.

She had blinked dreamily. 

“Right through there, sir. Flight takes off in twenty minutes.”

Now, Aziraphale fiddled nervously in his seat. On his right, an old lady was snoozing, and on his left-

Someone sunk into the empty seat. They smelt of burnt toast.

Aziraphale turned, feigned a polite smile, then froze.

He scowled, and the seat beneath him cracked.

“ _ You _ !”

* * *

Across the ocean, Crowley was losing his temper. Again.

“No, no. You ssssaid I could sssseee him before I sssigned.”

Asmodeus held the paper up and shook it. He looked away irritably. “Didn’t.”

Crowley hissed. “You did!”

Beelzbubz didn’t smile. The corner of their lips twitched, though. “I can’t recall, Crowley.”

“I can sssstill sssswallow you all. Or blesssss ssome water.”

The Disposable Demons paled. Beelzebub jerked forward, scowling, “and you can spend the rezzzt of eternity with fliez buzzzzing around in your stomach, traitor.”

Asmodeus shuddered. “Wouldn’t feel nice during sex.”

The contents of Crowley’s stomach almost made an appearance.

Almost. 

* * *

Aziraphale had never fought anyone on a plane before. 

But, there was a first time for everything, and he hadn’t been Guardian of the Eastern Gate for nothing. He even asked politely. Thomas had clutched the bag close to his chest, and made a run for it. 

He didn’t get far. 

By the time Aziraphale had unscrewed the lid- inwardly glad that the human hadn’t tried to consume it yet (it would have burnt every bit of flesh off his body)- and sucked in his Grace, he was gone in a flutter that left the flight attendants grasping at thin air. 

Something they could later talk about in group therapy, maybe. 

Aziraphale landed awkwardly in the middle of Crowley’s flat. He rubbed at his throbbing head, ignoring the mud that flaked to the ground, and wondered what sort of eyes he’d have to flash at Crowley to get him to fix his clothes. 

“My dear?”

Silence answered his tired call.

Something began to tremble.

It sounded like leaves.

Aziraphale turned, frowning at the lack of  _ Crowley  _ in the flat, and spied the demon’s houseplants sifting feebly next to a large window.

They were shaking.

The plants had never been afraid of  _ him  _ before. 

Aziraphale could have laughed hysterically. He must have been quite the sight.

The plants continued to tremble. The unbridled power that was all but leaking from the corporation in front of them was more terrifying than some flimsy yelling, now that they thought about it.

“Have you seen your owner anywhere?”

The trembles quieted for a second, then started up again in earnest.

Aziraphale sighed, and reached out with his Grace, which was still bouncing in joy at the belated reunion.

Radio silence. 

The only place Aziraphale couldn’t sense Crowley’s presence in was-

He looked at the ground.

“Oh, bugger.”

* * *

“You either sign,” said Beelzebub, at their wits end, flies almost covering every inch of their body now, “or I order for some pretty white wingz to be the new decoration in your trial room.”

Crowley swallowed. He hunkered back on his tail, and felt, all at once, quite miserable.

He just wanted Aziraphale.

“Fine.”

Asmodeus almost looked surprised. 

“Really?”

“Yessss, really,” Crowley snapped. At least, if he signed the contract he had spent the last twenty minutes reading and re-reading, they couldn’t back out of their promise to give Aziraphale back. 

He shrunk back down into his human form, and added some maggots for good measure. The tip of his finger became awash with red flame, sizzling irritably as Beelzebub held the contract out.

His finger traced the first line.

* * *

The receptionist, still trembling from the threats of Holy Water and being flattened by a gigantic snake, almost passed out as an  _ angel,  _ trudged by him.

Hundreds of eyes gazed at him in silent judgement.

He opened the gate without a word.

* * *

“Last, but not least,” said Asmodeus, taking Crowley’s last few seconds of freedom to admire his thin corporation, “sign here.”

Crowley lifted the blazing finger again.

**“ _Crowley_!”**

Crowley jerked back at the booming voice, and accidentally set half the page on fire. Beelzebub diminished it with a wave, and scowled.

They all looked towards the voice. Four in dread, one in snakish delight.

Down the hall, hundreds of glittering blue eyes blinked owlishly at them. It was blinding, and Crowley had to shrink down a bit to avoid the flare. They were drowning in fury, exhaustion, and what Crowley would describe as being ‘one hundred percent done’.

“Do not,” Aziraphale’s voice echoed ominously, “sign that, my dear.”

“Ah,” Disposable Demon B said unconvincingly, “he escaped. Oh no.”

Aziraphale’s true form, a smaller version, floated towards them. He glared, and the demons, aside from one, cowered.

Crowley tasted the air, cringed at the hysteria that was leaking off his friend (boyfriend?). “Angel!”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale calmly.

“Er,” said Crowley, “are you okay?”

Aziraphale sniffed. He didn’t quite have a nose in his true form, so his hundreds of eyes twinged, and then twitched. “I’d quite like a nap, I think.”

A nap.

Crowley eyed the angel worriedly. In the thousands of years of knowing him, Crowley had not once seen Aziraphale sleep, or desire anything close to a nap. There was too much to read, or to eat.

“Angel?”

The demons were slowly stepping backwards. Beelzebub's flies multiplied to shroud them from the blinding light. 

Aziraphale sucked his true form back down into his human corporation. Crowley couldn’t help but cringe in sympathy.

His hair looked more brown than it did blonde.

“What the fuck did they do to you, angel?”

“Humans,” Aziraphale said simply. He was coated in mud. It matted his hair, and hid most of the angry red scratches. His beloved outfit was in ruins.

Crowley fixed it without a thought.

Aziraphale barely blinked.

“I’ve come to rescue you,” he said, eyes a bit empty. 

Crowley scratched his head, “Ngk. I came to rescue you.”

Aziraphale laughed hollowly. 

Crowley, after a second of horrified staring, laughed weakly, then sobered up. “Seriously, Aziraphale. Are you alright?”

“You were looking in the wrong place, my dear boy.”

Crowley turned to glare at the Prince of Hell, and the two Disposable Demons cowering behind them. “So you weren’t down here? In a pit?”

Aziraphale frowned at him, mouth twisting impossibly downwards. He turned to level the same look at the other demons. They cringed, rubbed at their eyes, and looked away. “No. I was in America.”

“America? What were you doing in America?”

“Getting robbed.”

“Robbed?”

“This iz ridiculouzzz. I should report you two to-“

“Shut up.”

Crowley, despite the immunity and fear their preformative lie provided them with, still shrunk back in horror. There was only so much you could push before something gave way. 

Aziraphale, a Principality, an angel, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, had just told the Prince of Hell to shut it.

Crowley’s old boss stared with an open mouth. Their flies went completely silent. The Disposable Demon’s inched backwards. 

Aziraphale gazed levelly back. “I’d like to take my demon and  _ go  _ now.”

Crowley preened at the statement. Just a little. Asmodeus noticed all the same, and sneered at him.

“You can’t juzt leave,” Beelzebub said, “we can keep you here. You can’t just waltz in and-“

“I have been walking for six hours,” Aziraphale suddenly exploded, straightening up, “I have seen Maple  _ everywhere.  _ My squirrel is gone!”

In some other universe, this might have made sense to all the occupants in the hall. 

Crowley looked around desperately.

Holy buzzing filled the air, and it rang like a horribly bad case of tinnitus. The dark halls of Hell brightened with celestial light, and blue eyes, big and small, began to pop up along Aziraphale’s skin.

Asmodeus shrunk back in horror. Beelzebub shoved Disposable Demon B forward as the light, awfully hot and terribly freezing, danced towards them. It swallowed him up, and he evaporated in a spray of black dust. 

Then, Aziraphale straightened. The light died, his eyes burrowed back under his skin, and the suffocating celestial essence died down.

He held out a plump hand towards Crowley.

Beelzbubz flies all laid dead, completely fried, at their feet. 

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand.

“We’ll be going now, I’d think.”

Beelzebub nodded silently.

They disappeared in a spray of light.

* * *

Aziraphale, much cleaner and significantly more sane, was nursing a very nice glass of red wine. They were back in his bookshop, the heater on full blast to combat the chilly winds outside, along with a very nice dinner of sushi spread in front of them. Crowley was also telling a rather fetching story of his attempted rescue. Aziraphale tilted the rim of his glass towards his lips, and wiggled his feet in Crowley’s lap. “So you swallowed them? Whole?”

Crowley grinned. “Yup.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. It was impressive, really, but slightly worrying. He mulled over Crowley’s tale thoughtfully. “My dear, where did they go?”

Crowley took another sip of wine. “Where’d who go?”

“The other demons. When you changed back to your human corporation.”

He couldn’t imagine how big the demon must have gotten to be able to fit so many in his stomach. It didn’t seem very appealing, in Aziraphale’s opinion. Funny, though. And very Crowley.

Crowley, who had froze, and looked a bit pale. He eyed the wine in his hand, dribbled the mouthful he had just taken back into the glass, and looked down at his stomach.

“Um."

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley, subconsciously, has shrunk all the demons down when he transformed into his much smaller human form.
> 
> I’m on tumblr at @levsoligt


End file.
